Lost and found
by wayofthepen
Summary: Seperated in the past, one died and rose again, the other taking up the power of the twisting nether. Regardless of what 'side' they are on, when they reunite, they remember that all they want is each other.


Even if you find the story icky, please comment on the structure and feeling of the format i've written it in.

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Once, we lost each other.

When the scourge descended upon the city I grew up in, I watched as the dead rose and fell upon the living, who died by fang and poison and rusted blades, only to rise themselves and kill yet more, bringing everyone I knew into those cursed ranks. Including myself.

And I watched her die.

She was life unbound, bright and joyous, a wizard without magic and a healer by her very presence. I loved her, and I watched her die, impaled on her father's old spear, from when he was a soldier in days past. When he was still alive.

I came back.

In a moldy crypt, I regained my sense of self, and I was taught by those like me to put my talents to better use. My performances were no longer limited to circus tents and ramshackle stages. I had a new audience. Everyone lauded me, save the ones who could truly appreciate my display. The ones whom I envied. The ones that I made sure died quickly, painlessly, and who would not rise again.

In a sense, I died and was resurrected as well.

Not literally, mind you. Mentally. Spiritually. I watched the tall, proud knights, the noble paladins, the wise wizards, I watched them take up sword and hammer and stave and throw themselves against the scourge. And to a man, they died. All but one. One woman who knew their secrets, who turned their own magics back against them, to whom demons bowed their heads and even the dead walked in fear of. I fell to my knees, and offered myself to her.

We had purpose, a reason for living, once again.

I trained my cold, pale body. With blades and poisons and fangs of my own, I had enemies to kill and a queen to serve, with a body beyond the reach of plague, poison and fear.

I trained my mind. My teacher showed me such wonderful, terrible things, and I extracted ten-fold vengeance upon those responsible for the scourge, human hands working hellfire on a level that even demon flesh crumbled under.

And in that purpose, we nearly lost ourselves.

The single-mindedness of the assassin's craft, my entire existence weighed and measured in a single thrust. The weight of forbidden knowledge that was anathema to sanity itself, and knowing I must seek out _more,_ that the power that I had would never _quite _be enough.

And then, we found each other again.

On a blood-drenched battlefield, surrounded by friend and foe, we found ourselves face-to-face. Nothing was said, as nothing was needed. We simply left the field to those who still wished to fight, to the stupid, the misled, and those who had simply forgotten _why _they had first taken up a blade. Unlike them, we had something to always remind us what we fought for.

On occasion, we have to separate.

When patrols in shining armor crest the hill in front of us, she is gone before I realize it, and once they are past, her lips are against mine before I can even turn to look for her.

When I need the reagents of my craft that only the forsaken can supply, I come back to find him sweating, shaking, hearing his heart pound from twenty paces away. He greets me by slamming me against a rock or wall or even the dusty ground, crushing me to his crest and kissing me with a fervor that never lessens, not after a hundred trips, no difference in passion whether I am gone a day or an hour.

But right now, we are alone together.

Training, talking, or simply holding each other, we are whatever we need each other to be. Discussing the undead plague and burning legion in all seriousness, ways to strike against them, returning exhausted and elated from a successful mission. Blushing as I did in life as he puts away the tomes stolen from the necromancers of Caer Darrow, eyeing my naked body. Gone are the shrunken cheeks, milky eyes, skin and muscles frayed and torn from stress at the joints. Cold and pale still but full and whole, smooth skin and soft curves.

I smile as I step back. The necromancers seem to have no shame, employing the most disgusting of creations. I, however, take pride in my work, especially when it is a gift to the one I love, a gift we can both enjoy.

We are together, as it should be, and neither the grave nor the twisting nether can keep us apart.


End file.
